


A Beneficial Alliance

by ribbonelle



Series: Long and Mad [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Casual Sex, Deltaran Medical Facility, M/M, Pre-Messatine, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 22:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2789339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbonelle/pseuds/ribbonelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn’t matter what the society thought, or what they kept telling Pharma over and over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beneficial Alliance

**Author's Note:**

> my half of santa-tailgate's gift trade for [justabitscrewy](http://justabitscrewy.tumblr.com) !! merry christmas here's your early gift :>  
> this was so fun honestly, writing pharma was something new for me and i had a LOT of fun. apologies if i hecked up some of their mannerisms though, especially ratchet. i thought i knew him well but i will admit that i was wrong. this is set in the Deltaran Medical Facility, where Pharma and Ratchet worked together in the very early days of the war. they're both pretty young and cocky and with less responsibilities. special thanks to [tailgato](http://tailgato.tumblr.com) and [kalmobotti](http://kalmobotti.tumblr.com) and [mercurymaplekey](http://mercurymaplekey.tumblr.com) for helping me out with editing <3  
> i hope you like this!! i am so bad w titles hence i am sorry again :'>
> 
> note: i wrote this with the idea that for cybertronians, it's sometimes cool to sleep with your coworkers. it depends! hence 'casual sex' as a tag but just so that's mentioned :>

Pharma’s optics flickered for a few moments as he gripped the edge of his desk, his dentae gritting hard. He vented, air streaming out from parted lips in a slow exhalation. His expression was one of extreme annoyance, but he schooled it into something more professional as he turned around, smiling amiably at the pair of mechs standing before him, “I’m afraid Ratchet has appointments for the entirety of this week. As well as the next.”

The look of devastation from them cheered Pharma up, a little, “As the nurse had informed you earlier, there _is_ another doctor who could perform the surgery for you, and that would be me. I am just as qualified, and—“

“Ah, yes, but we have heard so much about Doctor Ratchet,” interjected the bright green speedster, his smile almost blinding, probably resulting from the bleach the Towers’ mechs used sometimes, “They say he is the greatest doctor of our millennia! So Dashwire and I were thinking that since we could afford it, might as well ask for the best, right? I’m sure you understand.”

“I do,” Pharma’s smile widened, to the point of it turning into a grimace, “I honestly do. But due to the superficial nature of this particular procedure you request, I doubt you’d be marked as priority, but you are welcome to wait as _long_ as you like. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he stood up, dentae bared in a sneer, “It’s almost closing time.”

There was no mistaking the offended air of the pair as they were eventually ushered out of Pharma’s office and the facility altogether by a nurse, but Pharma couldn’t care less. He didn’t have time for prissy, rich mechs who thought they excreted sparkling high-grade and that Cybertron revolved around them and them alone. And to insult him right to his faceplates, too! Unacceptable.

Granted, Ratchet really _was_ a good medic. Pharma had to agree. He hadn’t noticed how hard he had been gripping his desk again, till he released his hold and his HUD pinged with mild damage reports from his finger sensors. His self-repair would handle it, it didn’t matter. Then he opened a comm-link to Ratchet, and his colleague picked up after a few seconds.

_:What?:_

_:Closing in 10 minutes. Are you done for the day?:_

_:Yes, I’m just sterilizing some equipment. That last surgery was an absolute mess, like you wouldn’t believe.:_

_:Aw. Poor you.:_

_:How sincere.:_

_:I’m coming there. To help, maybe. Probably not. Don’t make me wait outside.:_

_:Yeah, yeah.:_

Pharma killed the connection, and folded his arms. Ratchet always kept his door locked an hour before closing time, apparently he had made it a habit ever since he worked overtime for an entire month. No one could get in that way, and he wouldn’t feel compelled to deal with last-minute patients. The Deltaran Medical Facility was lenient, there weren’t any strict rules regarding work hours and such, but Ratchet had pushed things and was terribly worn out. He was a good doctor, but still a normal mech.

The best of the millennia, like the noble had said.  Pharma scoffed aloud. Something was thick and bitter and bubbling deep down at the base of his throat tubing, but he didn’t give it any mind. Ratchet was amazing. So was he, despite the lack of acknowledgement. He was _great_ , and he knew that. Ratchet knew that.

So why did everything feel so unfair?

It wouldn’t do to mull any longer about things he didn’t have an answer to, so Pharma exited his office, making his way to Ratchet’s. The nurses were systematically shutting things down already, preparing to close the facility. Security itself had been increased. There were rumours of an inevitable war, of mechs taking a stand against the Senate, and while Pharma agreed that the Senate was corrupt, he rejected entirely the idea of inexperienced, emotional _nobodies_ participating in the so-called war. They called themselves Deceptioncons, or whatever the fancy name they had come up with for themselves was, and Pharma was disgusted. In the end, when everything went to hell and they were either dead or dying, whose responsibility would it be to save them? The medics, of course.

The DMF had even assigned bodyguards for some of them now. To the most valuable medic of the facility, of course, and that…was not Pharma. The thought made him angry all over again. Ratchet had four bodyguards in total and there would be at least two in the facility at all times. They’d make sure Ratchet arrived to the DMF safely, and returned home in the same state. They were big, heavy mechs who had fairly obvious grounder altmodes and they hung around Ratchet like parasites. Pharma didn’t have those.

His thoughts were getting progressively ugly. Pharma intended to meet Ratchet right away. He had discovered some time ago that being left to his own thoughts didn’t usually result in good things, so he quickened his pace, and surreptitiously rapped at Ratchet’s door when he reached his destination.

“It’s not locked, Pharma,” was the muffled reply, and Pharma entered the office.

Ratchet was cleaning, wiping his fingers with a cloth, a tray full of recently cleaned tools by his side. The office was fairly large, with its own washracks, a side room with a berth, quite luxurious for a DMF employee. But the employee was Ratchet, so it made sense.

Pharma truly admired Ratchet, he did. His colleague was impressive, he was talented and he was good at what he did. Pharma was very aware of Ratchet’s greatness. It was apparent even in the way he looked. The stern lines of his visage, the stoic expression he wore, the fluid movements of his hands, even while cleaning. And Ratchet never once shoved his superiority into Pharma’s faceplates, much unlike everyone else, really.

“You mentioned something about a messy surgery?”

He was really good at theatrics too, and Pharma could appreciate that. Ratchet’s groan was dragged out as he turned to give Pharma a look, his optics conveying the terror of the event that had happened, “It was a _disaster._ I wanted to have you assist me so you could join in my suffering and have bad fluxes about it for a week, but the poor slagger’s innards were erupting so I didn’t have the time. Primus. I was up to my arms in unmentionables.”

Pharma had to snicker, the look on Ratchet’s face was priceless, “Sounds like a dream. He’s well now, undoubtedly?”

“Sort of,” Ratchet shrugged, “He’ll need a few weeks of bed rest. But I suppose he’s fine. You should have seen his boron compressor.”

“Mm, no thank you,” the flier sidled closer, absently watching Ratchet clean his hands, “My hands were full too. With emergency cases that is, but well, we’re close to Rodion, it’s no surprise. You know how many mechs came in with blaster wounds? Everyone’s getting shot these days.”

Ratchet’s optics flashed with concern, “It’s the war. The Senate isn’t quite handling this as well as they should.”

“Since when did they ever? Oh, you reminded me of a rumour that’s been circulating,” Pharma’s wings flicked, and he averted his gaze to look at a gifted painting on Ratchet’s wall instead, “They say you’re working under the Prime. As CMO, or something, but I didn’t acquire all the details.”

His colleague looked fairly amused, “Nominus? Huh. He’s practically a connoisseur of bad decisions, so that might as well be true.”

It was Pharma’s turn to roll his optics, “Your modesty sickens me.”

Ratchet laughed in good humour, despite Pharma’s complete sincerity, “Part of my charm, they say.”

“And you’re just the picture of a well-mannered noble,” mused Pharma, glancing at Ratchet again, noting that the mech had put his cleaning cloth aside, his hands now free. Red fingers flexed a few times, Ratchet was probably recalibrating his sensors; it was typical for them to lower down their sensitivity while dealing with cleaning solvents. Something else entirely stirred in Pharma’s frame, and he reached over.

There wasn’t much resistance, aside from the slight surprise from Ratchet as Pharma took his left hand and pulled it closer. It might not mean anything, but it could also mean familiarity and trust, and Pharma liked the thought. He could do a lot of things with a mech’s faith.

“What are ya—oh,” Ratchet reset his optics as Pharma opened his mouth and almost daintily took in Ratchet’s middle finger, lip components closing over the second knuckle joint. He sucked languidly, cleaning solvent sharp on his taste receptors. He loved Ratchet’s hands. Hands were a medic’s most prized possession, and Ratchet’s hands were divine. He’d seen how graceful Ratchet was with his fingers, how he could work even with the most miniscule mechanism in a Cybertronian’s body and make it work again. Pharma admired his skill. Pharma wanted it for himself, some days.

Ratchet was transfixed, watching Pharma lavish attention onto his fingers. Pharma took his sweet time, holding the hand firmly by the wrist to mouth at the red palm, his optics sliding up from the appendage to lock with his colleague’s. Ratchet’s ventilation hitched audibly, and Pharma couldn’t help a smirk. He always had an effect on Ratchet. It didn’t matter what the society thought, or what they kept telling Pharma over and over again, _Ratchet_ himself thought Pharma was exquisite, and he had proof of that right here. Pharma licked at the joint of Ratchet’s thumb and Ratchet’s optics went bright with desire.

This felt good, it felt right, and Pharma couldn’t really explain what made him slide another finger into his mouth and bite down.

“Ouch,” Ratchet flinched, snapped out of his reverie, “Ow.”

Extracting the fingers from his mouth, being more than showy, Pharma kissed the joints he had bitten, looking fairly apologetic, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You’re in a bitey mood?”

“Not particularly,” he paused, “…Maybe a little.”

Ratchet nodded, and Pharma could feel the heat emanating from his frame already, “Okay, anyway...Wanna come back home with me?”

Pharma’s smile stretched, and it was difficult to keep his hands off Ratchet then, his fingers trailing along the length of Ratchet’s arm, “Quaint. Someone’s tired of their hands, I take it?”

“Somewhat,” the mech huffed, seeming embarrassed, “I haven’t even done that lately. You know how busy we’ve been, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me.”

“Till I awakened your repressed sexual desire, I take it?”

“…Please don’t ever speak like that again.”

Pharma snorted, darkened an optic in a playful wink, and released Ratchet’s hand, “Let’s go.”

//

Rodion at night was quite interesting. Its ‘Dead End’ wasn’t so close to the Deltaran Medical Facility, and the night life wasn’t so bad on a normal day, but there were still the group of mechs that were loud and robust, the well-to-do pair who’d look disgusted at everything they’d see, and seemingly fragile, frail mechs hiding in the shadows of Rodion’s alleys.

Ratchet saw all of this every day, and it was familiar to him. What was new was the purple writing on the walls, the sharp symbols of what seemed to be a rising rebellion. ‘You are being deceived.’ How cryptic. Ratchet, however, knew where his loyalties lie.

“You know what would be a good decision?”

Pharma tilted his head, as they walked down the street at a leisurely pace, taking their time, “What?”

“A clinic in the ‘Dead End’. I think it’d really help.”

“Oh, it certainly would,” agreed his colleague, seeming thoughtful. He smirked soon enough, nevertheless, “How do you expect the poor saps there to pay for treatment?”

A slight pause, before Ratchet shrugged, “A free clinic then. They really do need one.”

Pharma’s laughter was loud and rich, almost condescending, but that was the way he was and Ratchet was quite used to it. Their battles of snark usually turned out amazing. His consequent snickering caused his optics to narrow in mirth, looking at Ratchet as if he knew a particularly funny joke. It was attractive in its cockiness, Ratchet had to admit. Pharma was very good-looking.

“How noble,” the flier’s lip components were curved into a little smile, apparently very amused, “I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re seriously considering it, though.”

“You know all about the mortality rates in the ‘Dead End’. Something needs to be done.”

“I suppose you’re right. They could use some proper healthcare,” Pharma nodded, and chuckled again, “Where are you going to get the funds for the clinic? The DMF aren’t really paying us that much. Unless we have different incomes.”

Ratchet tilted his head at the sudden dip in Pharma’s tone but dismissed it when it seemed that nothing was wrong with his colleague, “It’s the same. Depends on how many procedures you carry out in a certain period of time, and all that. That’s always been how they work. Maybe I’ll save up. I’m just pulling all of this out my driveshaft for now, but it isn’t too far-fetched. Right?”

“Right. It could definitely happen,” Pharma paused in silent contemplation, before addressing Ratchet once again, “What if you get promoted, though? Out of the DMF, perhaps.”

“I doubt that changes anything. I’d probably be busier. But if I have the time…” another shrug from the medic, “It’d seem like a waste if I don’t take the opportunity. I’m merely going with the flow of things right now, what with this blasted war and all. Maybe someday I’ll take charge of whatever I want to do.”

“Logical. And so incredibly you.”

Ratchet was about to ask what exactly Pharma meant by that, but his colleague had touched his arm, blue fingers curling over the white of his plating. He glanced up to see Pharma wearing that one smile, the smile Ratchet had never been able to explain, but always made his engine rev. He wasn’t looking for anything permanent, not yet; Ratchet was in his prime and he was doing quite well in life, and he could afford to indulge.

Pharma was definitely something he indulged in.

They continued the rest of their journey in amiable silence, the bright lights of Rodion and its happenings serving as a distraction to compensate for the lack of conversation. Pharma was one of those mechs that Ratchet didn’t need to constantly be aware of, he was familiar. They could sit down and talk about work or pleasure or nothing at all and it wouldn’t matter. It had been a while since they spent an evening in each other’s company, nevertheless, but even so, Ratchet felt fairly at ease. A good day’s work, good company, a pleasant night.  

He lived in one of the average habitation units in the middle of the city. It was a good distance from the DMF, and was somewhat secure, and Ratchet was happy with it. Pharma lived in one of the flier buildings, tall structures that were all the rage for flight-capable mechs. Ratchet had only been there a few times, mostly due to him needing Pharma’s help getting him up there. And Pharma liked to show off.

It wasn’t until they were safe inside his living space that Pharma’s hand on his arm tightened to push him against the closed door, other hand sliding over the ridges of his waist. Ratchet couldn’t help but laugh a little, wondering why he was even surprised at Pharma’s sudden enthusiasm, “And here I thought we were going to drink some energon, first.”

Pharma was messing with the rise of his pelvic array, tracing nonsensical patterns with his fingers, “But I don’t want energon. Do you?”

“I could go without.”

“Then what the hell are you waiting for,” the question wasn’t really phrased as a question, as Pharma waited for no reply, leaning forward to cover Ratchet’s lip components with his. He lickedinto Ratchet’s mouth, and the mech’s thought processes simply disintegrated into nothing. Ratchet reached up to slide his fingers into the slats on Pharma’s shoulders for some kind of purchase, kissing back with increased fervour.

It had been a while. The feel of Pharma’s roving hands were somehow intensified, despite Ratchet being certain that his sensory receptors were working normally. The fingers scraping along his frame and over the plexiglass of his chest made him moan into Pharma’s mouth, made him needy. It was hard to ignore Pharma’s pleased hum at his reaction, and Ratchet had to retaliate, going right for the flier’s wing joints.

Multiple occurrences and experimentation had led to Ratchet being pretty good at manipulating flight sensors, or at least that seemed to be the case with Pharma. He could physically feel Pharma’s legs bowing at the onslaught on his wings, frame juddering pleasantly against Ratchet’s, “Ah! Oh, that’s just, mm, not fair.”

Ratchet rolled his hips up hard, relishing in the loud grating noise his gesture resulted in, “Too bad. To the berth, come on.” Using both hands to push at Pharma’s chest so they could move, Ratchet found his wrists caught instead, tugged up and slammed against the door behind him. Pharma held him still in a surprisingly strong grip, and kissed him again, the liplock somewhat hungry.

Whatever protest Ratchet had died on his tongue, which was enthusiastically sucked on soon enough, and it was much, much easier to shut up and reciprocate for the time being. Pharma’s movements were sinuous as he slid a leg in between Ratchet’s, the protrusion of his knee guard pressed perfectly against Ratchet’s crotch plate. The pressure made Ratchet squirm a little, but Pharma was relentless, denying Ratchet’s efforts to get away from the stimulation in an almost cruel fashion.

Every shift of his hips made the knee guard scrape harder against Ratchet’s panel and it wasn’t long before he was venting out air harshly, the insistent pleasure maddening, “Slaggit, Pharma—.”

The sound of metal folding back was loud despite the thrum of their engines, and Ratchet couldn’t help an involuntary, deafening _rev_ when he felt the length of Pharma’s spike slide over his plating, a substitute for the knee guard. Ratchet preferred this arrangement, of course. Quick to follow, his own spike pressurized, and their sensual movements were reduced to mindless rutting for a moment.

Pharma’s vocalizer clicked and whirred audibly at a particularly delicious grinding of Ratchet’s hips, and Ratchet smirked, somewhat smug. It was always nice to gain the upper hand, especially when it was with Pharma. The mech brought out Ratchet’s competitive side, mainly because Pharma himself always wanted to win. It could get annoying when it came to work and daily interactions, but in sex, Ratchet was usually too absorbed in the pleasure to care.

Blue hands shot out to grip at Ratchet’s hips, trying to hold him still. It was almost comical, Ratchet’s hip joints creaking ominously at the effort he put forth in trying to move anyway, while Pharma refused to weaken his grasp. He did let go eventually, only to wrap fingers around his own spike and pull at himself in a few long strokes, and then reached for Ratchet again. His palm was sticky wet with the transfluid that was leaking out of his spike, and Ratchet couldn’t really help moaning at the sensations, at the glide of Pharma’s hand over him.

“Okay,” Pharma vented out, his voice a low drawl, “Berth.”

“’S what I’ve been saying, you aft.”

Some attempt was made to muffle any further commentary by a kiss hard enough to dent. Ratchet returned the aggression, reaching down to squeeze Pharma’s spike as they moved into the general direction of the habsuite, pushing and pulling at each other. Pharma stumbled a few times, having to walk backwards as he was pleasured. His hand had slipped from Ratchet’s own length to hold himself steady while his colleague steered him into the berth and eventually onto it, his wings laid flat on the surface.

Ratchet grinned. With the advantage of Pharma underneath him, he took his sweet time fingering the mech’s shoulder vents, letting go of the spike to reach up and tweak Pharma’s chevron. Pharma _writhed_ deliciously at that, torn between pushing his hips up or struggling away, mouth twisted into a scowl, probably offended by the pinch to his chevron. Too bad.

Pouty lips were simply begging to be bitten though, so Ratchet leaned down and did exactly that. Pharma nipped at his lips in return, with twice the ferocity. It was easy to get lost in the haze of sloppy making out and harsh grazes of denta, and Ratchet shouldn’t have been so surprised when Pharma dug fingers into the wheels behind his shoulders, and flipped them over.

There was no way Ratchet was going to accept that so readily. He pushed himself up again, ignoring Pharma’s weight over his hips, only to be shoved back down by firm blue hands placed over the flat plane of his chest. Ratchet surged up once more and was pressed down _again_ , Pharma making it clear he wasn’t going to let Ratchet up. It happened a few more times and Ratchet snarled in frustration, wanting to kick Pharma off him and the bed altogether, but didn’t have the chance.

Pharma ran fingers down Ratchet’s right leg to lift up his thigh and hooked the limb over the flier’s shoulder. Ratchet was kissed again, Pharma’s glossa in his mouth commanding his attention. He belatedly realized the insistent pressure on the panel under his straining spike; Pharma’s palm pushing and scraping against it. A fingertip caught on its seam, and Ratchet gave in, the panel retracting to expose himself.

The hitch in Pharma’s ventilation was worth it. Two fingers slid inside him quickly enough, rubbing at the slick nodes of his valve walls in a coaxing manner, and as pleasurable as that was, Ratchet was a little irked. His spike was throbbing, aching for tight, wet heat but they hadn’t done things that way for a while now. Ratchet was in no way picky, but deprive a mech from a certain pleasure, and he’d yearn for it.

Not that Pharma wasn’t building his charge even faster than before. The fingers pushing and pressing up inside him made Ratchet spread his legs even wider, the cables in his thigh stretching with an ominous noise. Pharma’s optics were dim with desire.

“Look at you,” the smugness in his voice was thick too, and Ratchet bared his dentae in irritation, “All spread out for me. You want me to give it to you? You want it hard?”

“For the love of the _Pit,_ shut up and just get to it, you half-clocked spare part,” Ratchet snarled, turning to the side in a blatant offering. The heat from his plating was overwhelming, and the fingers inside him were nowhere near enough, “Frag me already.”

Pharma’s engine rumbled loud enough for the vibrations to travel through Ratchet’s plating, and the noise that escaped Ratchet was almost needy. Pharma would probably have pointed it out with much delight if he wasn’t just as affected, turning his face to graze his teeth over the leg resting over his shoulder. He pulled out his fingers and trailed lubricant over Ratchet’s array, before wrapping said digits around Ratchet’s dripping spike, “What if for once, things didn’t go the way you want them to, Ratchet? Maybe it’d bring you down a notch.”

The statement made Ratchet frown in slight confusion, “What are you even on about, that doesn’t eve—ah, _Pharma,”_ Not allowing the mech to finish his tirade, Pharma had shifted his hips and pushed into Ratchet’s valve, almost agonizingly slow, still squeezing at Ratchet’s spike. The solid heat penetrating him was good enough to silence Ratchet momentarily, focusing solely on the stretch of mesh around Pharma’s girth. It really had been a while, and it was always best to start slow. But not for long, of course.

Once Ratchet’s valve had molded to the contours of the spike inside it, it spiralled down hard, clenching sensuously on Pharma’s spike. It made the jet shudder terribly, taken aback by the sudden stimulation. Ratchet simply smirked, “Not so high and mighty now, are you?”

The sound of trembling metal was music to Ratchet, as Pharma tried really hard to keep his frame steady over Ratchet’s. His optics flickered at the borderline painful pleasure, and Pharma ground his hips, his vocalizer resetting a few times.

“Mmh, are you going to let me move or not?”

Ratchet’s grin stretched wider, and it was his turn to sound fairly smug, “Say please.”

“Oh frag you!” scoffed Pharma, before Ratchet rolled his hips and rippled his valve walls over the appendage inside it. Pharma’s consequent curses were choked off in a desperate moan instead. He seemed practically murderous once he had recovered, and Ratchet simply smirked.

“Come on, let’s hear it.”

Pharma mumbled under his breath for a while, before sighing and letting go of Ratchet’s spike to imploringly run his fingers over Ratchet’s torso, “Can you let me move, please? I really want to move, Ratchet. You’re driving me insane here.”

It was satisfactory. Chuckling a little, Ratchet loosened his grip on Pharma’s spike, relaxing the walls of his valve and reached down to palm at his own spike, watching Pharma expectantly. Pharma’s optics went even dimmer at the sight, and he began to thrust.

It never took long for their interfacing sessions to turn frantic and rough. Sex was an outlet for them both, a means to an end, and they both preferred things hard and fast. And neither had an aversion to being vocal.

Ratchet’s leg had bent over Pharma’s upper half, hand jerking at himself in sync to Pharma’s thrusting, lubricant staining their plating in messy, obscene patterns. Pharma’s ventilations were coming out as steam from his mouth and vents while he shoved himself into Ratchet with single-minded focus. He groaned a few times, snippets of filthy words, optics transfixed on the opening of Ratchet’s valve accepting him in again and again.

“Pharma,” Ratchet moaned, frame twisting to change positions, the stretch of his leg proving to be too much. Pharma thankfully obliged, pulling out of Ratchet to set said leg down onto the berth, pushing himself further in between Ratchet’s legs. They lifted and wrapped around Pharma’s waist easily, urging the mech to continue.

Since Pharma was now in close proximity, Ratchet was free to let his hands wander and grope as much as he wanted. He dragged his palms over the plane of Pharma’s wings, dipped his fingers into transformation seams, tugged at neck cables. Pharma pushed his spike back inside Ratchet’s slick valve, the air around them sweltering from the combined heat.

Ratchet was fingering the glass of Pharma’s cockpit when his hands were grabbed and pinned onto the berth over his head. Pharma secured his wrists in place with a firm grip, other hand resting on the berth beside Ratchet’s head for stability as he fragged his partner, keeping up a rhythm. Ratchet would have protested the sudden restraints, but the constant pressure striking the back of his valve was liquid fire in his lines, and it didn’t matter as much. Locking optics with Pharma, he rolled his hips up into the motions, picking up the pace.

Plating crashed into each other soon enough, their movements gone harsh to chase overload in the most ruthless way possible. Charge crackled over Ratchet’s frame, the metal of his pelvic array scuffing as they collided repeatedly. Pharma wasn’t even keeping Ratchet’s wrists together anymore, needing both hands to surge into Ratchet’s frame as hard as he could, the heat and the contact and _pleasure_ overwhelming him.

Ratchet had reached down again, one hand tugging furiously at his own spike while the other grabbed at Pharma’s shoulder, pulling him down for a vicious kiss. Ratchet bit at Pharma’s glossa and the mech lost it, thrusting gone erratic and messy as he overloaded with a loud moan. He ground his hips against Ratchet’s as if trying to merge them together, paint scraping off in flakes as he emptied himself, processor blown sky high in his climax.

Ratchet was scrabbling for purchase at the sudden expulsion of charge from Pharma into him, thrashing under the mech’s bulk, so close to the edge, at the very brink of it. His colleague bucked his hips in a delayed effort of pushing Ratchet over, and that was all it took. His overload sent his processor reeling, joints locking up in ecstasy, his valve undulating fiercely over Pharma’s softening spike.

The writhing eventually subsided, and Ratchet’s frame went lax with his pleasure, hand stained with his own release moving away from between their frames. He made a face at the mess but his expression was softened with afterglow, and Pharma was still slumped over his frame.

They had needed that.

Ratchet allowed Pharma’s weight on him for a little longer, before tapping at the mech’s hip with his clean hand, “Alright. Off of me, now.”

Pharma’s response was a tired groan, lifting his head just enough to nip at Ratchet’s lip components once, and lifted himself to drop again beside his colleague, wings still flicking in the ghost of the sensations he had experienced. Ratchet snorted, and made an effort to regulate his ventilations, staring at the ceiling.

His processor was tingling, and spark deep weariness was going to claim him soon, he was sure. It was good that they did this, nevertheless. Nothing better than seeking pleasure with colleagues.

Pharma almost never stayed after these occurrences, though, and Ratchet glanced over at him, trying to sound dismissive but his vocalizer was still spitting some static, “Should I kill the lights?”

The jet pushed himself up slowly, dimming optics brightening as he sat on the berth. His spike retracted and he shot Ratchet a lazy smile, stretching languidly, “After I leave, probably. Can I use your balcony?”

Ratchet smiled back, before rolling his optics in exaggeration, “You _never_ close the doors if you do. I don’t have time to close doors after you. And I certainly don’t need thieves sneaking into my house because of your carelessness.”

“Oops. I haven’t been doing that with intention, though, I tend to forget when I’m in the air.”

“Well, stop forgetting. Next thing you know, I wake up with everything I own gone. Bet that’d make you happy, you glitch.”

Pharma laughed, tilting his head with a cockiness that had become familiar, “I think it just might.” He slid off the berth, checking himself over for a moment. They were both a mess, but Pharma was going to head straight home anyway, he could clean up then. He also took a while to appraise Ratchet’s supine form on the berth post-interface, and chuckled again at the dismissive flick of Ratchet’s hand, “See you tomorrow, Ratchet.”

“Yeah, yeah. Have a safe flight.”

He didn’t watch Pharma leave, only listening to the sound of the balcony doors being opened, plating folding and re-assembling in a transformation sequence, and a slight displacement of air as Pharma took off.

Pharma didn’t close the balcony doors this time, either.


End file.
